


The Game Is On

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Drug Use, Drugs, Facility, Gen, Rehab, drug taking, fraternal relationship, lockdown - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:45:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7354012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft, as ever, is Sherlock's only saving grace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game Is On

It was a mistake, of course. He knew that. He knew it, and yet he allowed it to happen - allowed himself to do it. The world would hate him if they ever knew; he'd be shunned, called every possible nickname for the worst kind of person that could be imagined. And yet, he would not take back its happening. He would not - could not - regret it. He should, he knew, but it was nigh on impossible to pretend it had not been the single, most amazing moment he had experienced in his life. 

He spent numerous times trying to recreate it; the feeling he felt that day, though, never returned. He chased it, with vigor, but it always seemed to be just out of reach. It didn't prevent him from reaching out though. Oh no, he reached and jumped and threw himself in its general direction in the hope that somewhere, down the line a ways, that perfection would be found once again. 

Of course, that's how he had ended up right here. Staring into space, he considered that the pure white wall opposite him was a mocking of just how dirty he was. You'll never be this pure, it teased; tainted and the worst possible person there could be, it bellowed, you could never be this... _clean_. 

It wasn't a lie. He was dirty and it coarsed through him; it left as many outward signs as it did inward demons. He may well have felt Heaven, but for certain he had been dropped just as speedily into the depths of Hell. 

"Sherlock?" 

He turned his head to the right and let his eyes come into focus. Standing right there, suited and booted, was his brother. 

"I asked you a question." 

Sherlock looked into his eyes. "Did you?"

"I asked if you were ready to cooperate yet." 

Sherlock smirked. "With you?" Mycroft gave an exasperated sigh and Sherlock loved it. He was getting to him. Perfect!

"With the doctors." 

Mycroft's teeth were pushed out at the bottom as he scolded him with a thick tone of voice and wide, angry eyes. 

"No." Sherlock drew his eyes away, finding his favourite spot on the wall. Pure, crisp and white. 

"Then you'll stay here."

Sherlock flicked his eyes back to the angry expression on his brothers face. "Make me." 

"That can be gleefully arranged, brother dear." 

"I'd like to see you try," Sherlock hissed. "Get me out of here, Mycroft. You get me out of here, or so help me, I'll..."

"What?" 

The challenge stopped him mid rant. 

"You'll what, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock twitched a single eyebrow in disinterest. "It won't work."

"I am aware of this." 

"So why enforce it, oh brother?" Sherlock mocked. 

"At least if you leave here with your system clear, it'll be a longer period before you're back." 

Sherlock considered his logic. "Perhaps." 

"Cooperate with them, Sherlock."

Sherlock drew down the corners of his mouth. "No." 

"Then rot!"

The sound of Mycroft's retreating feet was bittersweet. Sherlock brought his eyes back to the wall, the pure wall. 

Thirty days in this place would be fine, he could survive it. Safe in the knowledge that he would resume the chase when he left. 

"The game, Sherlock, is on."


End file.
